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POEMS 



POEMS 



BY 



/ 



ARTHUR REED ROPES 



MACMILLAN & CO. 



[All rights reserved] 



fK 



Z3& 



CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, 
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. 

Gtfk 

'MR. HUTCHESOI*. 
12Je'G5 



TO MY SISTER 

WHOM CHILDREN KNOW AS 

M. E. R. 



PREFACE. 

The present small volume has been selected 
from about four times its bulk of verse, written 
between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five ; 
the poems and sonnets respectively are ar- 
ranged roughly in their order of composition. 
Several of the pieces included have appeared 
in two small collections of verse published at 
Cambridge, and others in the Cambridge 
Review, and elsewhere. The only poem which 
seems to need any prefatory explanation is the 
"Barcarolle." This, as its title hints, is 
simply an attempt to translate Chopin's music 
into rhyme, almost bar by bar. The Venice 
of the song is the ideal home of all barcarolles, 
in which even the (doubtless) preposterous 
topography of the poem is possible. To all 
those who have wandered down the ways of 
that dream-city in some interval of prosaic life, 
I commend this book, asking that for the 
sake of their own dreams they may judge it 
leniently. 

A. R. R. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

THE FLOWER OF THE FIELD .... I 

DREAMLAND 4 

DRONE HONEY 7 

A SONG IN AUTUMN II 

BALLADE OF A GARDEN 13 

BE CONTENT 15 

DOWN THE RIVER 16 

THE THREE WITNESSES 17 

ON THE BRIDGE 18 

NOCTURNE 19 

NIGHT 22 

A MEMORY 27 

IN PACE . . 30 

A PETITION 33 

MORNING IN SPRING 36 

SONG 37 

BARCAROLLE 38 

A TRANSPARENT ALLEGORY 53 

A BIRTHDAY ODE 55 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER : 

I. THE POET AND THE MULTITUDE . . 57 
II. BY THE SEA . . . . . . -59 

A * 



x CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
TRANSLATIONS FROM THEODORE DE BANVILLE : 

I. NIGHT 60 

II. THE MOON 6l 

§onnets. 

A HOT DAY 65 

THE MAKING OF THE WORLD . . .66 

THE LIMITS 67 

AFTER THE CONCERT 68 

A THANKSGIVING 69 

DAY 70 

NIGHT 71 

MIDNIGHT 72 

APOLOGY 73 

UNSATISFIED 74 

A BRIDE'S THOUGHT 75 

A SIMILE 76 

IN CHAPEL 77 

AFTERNOON CHAPEL 78 

IN THE HAMMOCK 79 

BY THE SEA 80 

CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC 83 

THE CREED 84 

THE SPHINX 85 

COMPENSATION 86 

THE LAST PICNIC 87 

IN AN ALBUM 88 

IF 89 

THE IDEAL 90 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 
TRANSLATIONS FROM BAUDELAIRE: 

I. THE LIFE BEFORE 91 

II. STRANGE PERFUME 92 

III. MEDITATION 93 

IV. LOVE AND WINE 94 

V. LOVE IN DEATH 95 

VI. THE DAY'S END 96 



POEMS. 



THE FLOWER OF THE FIELD. 

There grew a poppy in a plot of corn, 
And three men went thereby, before the heat 
Had drawn from out the field beneath their 

feet 
The freshness of the dewdrops and the morn ; 
So did the fairness of that lonely flower 
Strike in upon the sense of all the three, 
And one, a youth, spake in that youthful hour, 
And said, " Methinks this poppy well might be 
Some rich dark Southern beauty, sleepy-sweet, 
Girt with a bending ring of gracious men." 
The second, one that was of riper years, 
Made answer, " Nay, a blood-red banner, torn 
By steel of strife, blown with the clarion's blast, 



2 POEMS. 

And guarded round by ranks of shining spears. " 
Then spake the third, a little as in scorn 
Of the field-flowers, and the long-perished past 
When his tired eyes had not outlived their 

tears : 
c ' Death comes to love and war ; what aid they 

then? 
This flower has one speech only unto me, 
That man is as the grass, and all his pride 
Of war and beauty of love shall utterly 
Fade as the flowers in the sad autumn-tide ; 
The wind sweeps over them and they are 

gone." 
And at his word the three went silent on, 
And the low sunlight lay uncrossed by shade 
Until a maiden came, who hummed a song 
For very gladness, as she tripped along, 
The freshness of the morning in her eyes ; 
Nor was she moved, as they, in any wise 
To any thought of that which makes afraid, 
But stooped, and plucked the poppy from the 

ground, 
And set it on the whiteness of her dress, 



THE FLOWER OF THE FIELD. 3 

And so passed on with added loveliness. 
No hidden inner meaning had she found, 
Nor thought of strife and death to make her 

sad — 
The sole sweet beauty was enough to her ; 
She took God's thought, the poppy, and was 

glad, 
So was she Nature's best interpreter. 



DREAMLAND. 

Deep in the listless land of dreams 

There lies a lake shut in with hills, 
Wherefrom a thousand threads of streams 
Fall, and the misty moonlight gleams 
Upon them, and the night air thrills 
With noise of rills. 

And all night long a single bird 

In thickets of the tangled wood 
Sings softly, and the song half-heard 
Seems echo of some amorous word 

Remembered from lost love, some good 
Not understood. 

Down the soft air of summer hours 

Faint wandering wafts of perfume glide, 
Sweet scents of fragrant faded flowers, 
Regrets of roses, breath of bowers 

From whose dead joys the years divide 
Bridegroom and bride. 



DREAMLAND. 5 

Beside the lake, white palace-halls, 
A marble moonshine, temple-wise 

Stand high against the light that falls 

And slips in silver down the walls 

And roofs whose summits snowlike rise 
Into the skies. 

From out the palace fitfully 

Come murmuring through the midst of night 
Echoes of song and minstrelsy, 
Ripples of silver sound, that die 

Across the silver rippling light 
Far out of sight. 

The boat of dreams that bears me here 

Drifts through this shadowed loveliness ; 
Of all the thoughts of every year, 
One thought alone, one dream seems dear, 
This sleep of Nature, passionless 
To curse or bless. 

The past of passion and of pain, 

The wan wet autumn days that weep 



6 POEMS. 

From their grey skies in grieving rain. — 
No thoughts of such as these remain, 
Only the pleasure, dim yet deep, 
Of conscious sleep. 

Sleep and soft dreams — that is the boon 

That only makes us fully blest ; 
Dreams underneath the midnight moon- 
All sweet things else grow weary soon, 
And that is truly most and best 
That gives us rest. 



DRONE HONEY. 

I KNOW a land whereto few go to dwell, 
About whose loveliness there breathes a spell 
Through ranks of reeds and whispering 
waves of grasses, 
And many a hazy hill and dreaming dell. 

And all that country like a sorceress seems, 
Who murmurs mystic spells adown the streams, 
And in her shadowy treasure-house amasses 
The sweetness and the sleep of all men's dreams. 

Therein the drones make honey — not as ours, 

Nor drawn from bloom of garden beds and 

bowers, 

But from a land of poppy and lotos, lying 

Unwakened by the freshness of spring flowers. 



8 POEMS. 

With all the richness of her leaves unrolled 
The poppy dreams through every glossy fold, 
More frequent than in fields of harvest, 
sighing 
To the soft wind that ripples all their gold. 

Therefrom is drawn the honey of rest or pain, 
Like that strange sweetness of the Colchian 

plain, 
Whereof who tasted were as men made 

drunken, 
And some that tasted overmuch were slain. 

And they that overmuch delight in sleep, 
The house of such shall be a ruinous heap, 

Even as the Cities of the Plain, down-sunken 
Beneath the horror of a leaden deep. 

But he that tastes not more than man may bear 
Shall have sweet dreams about him everywhere, 
And in the heat and drouth of dusty summer 
Shall breathe pure perfume of a cooler air. 



DRONE HONEY. 9 

The scandals waking troubles overworn, 
The petty strifes whereby the most are torn. 
These shall he look on as a casual comer, 
And pass them with a smile, but not of scorn. 

And if his mind be stirred therewith — yet soon 
Its strings shall tremble back to one sweet 
tune, 
Like that famed music of a mighty master, 
The ripple of a brook beneath the moon. 

Free is he from the pitiful present hour ; 
How can it have upon him any power 
"While some song's memory makes his heart 
beat faster, 
Some pictured face or perfume of a flower ? 

These goodly gifts he has ; but those that try 
To gain them, and of over-striving die, 

What have they for the loss of love and 
laughter, 
What garniture of graves wherein to lie ? 



io POEMS. 

Waste mounds are theirs, nor decked with 

carven stones, 
Yet shall the poppy bloom above their bones, 
And from it shall be drawn, in autumns 

after, 
Delicate honey of the hiveless drones. 



A SONG IN AUTUMN. 

Sweet, if summer's bliss 
In the months we miss, 

Yet Love's rose recovers 
Fragrance with a kiss. 
Suns arise and set, 
Summers wane in wet, 

But the lips of lovers 
Never can forget. 

When warm days are dead, 
And the rose has shed 

Over beds and bowers 
Wreck of white and red, 
And the summer's feet 
With the swallows fleet, 

After fall of flowers 

Song shall yet be sweet. 



POEMS. 

Unto us that sing 

Winter is as spring, 
Autumn is as Maytime, 

Summer takes not wing ; 

For our singing saith 

More is love than breath, 
More than night and daytime, 

More than life and death. 



BALLADE OF A GARDEN. 

With plash of the light oars swiftly plying, 
The sharp prow furrows the watery way ; 

The ripples reach at the bank in dying, 

And soft shades shudder, and long lights play 
In the still dead heat of the drowsy day, 

As on I sweep with the stream that flows 
By sleeping lilies that lie asway 

In the garden of grace whose name none knows. 

There ever a whispering wind goes sighing, 

Filled with scent of the new-mown hay, 
Over the flower-hedge peering and prying, 

Wooing the rose as with words that pray ; 

And the waves from the broad bright river bay 
Slide through clear channels to dream and doze, 

Or rise in a fountain's silver spray 
In the garden of grace whose name none knows. 



14 POEMS. 

The sweet white rose with the red rose vying 

Blooms when the summer follows the May, 
Till the stream be hid by the lost leaves lying, 

That autumn shakes where the lilies lay. 

Bat now all bowers and beds are gay, 
And no rain ruffles the flower that blows, 

And still on the water soft dreams stay 
In the garden of grace whose name none knows. 

Envoi. 

Before the blue of the sky grows grey, 
And the frayed leaves fall from the faded 
rose, 
Love's lips shall sing what the day-dreams say 
In the garden of grace whose name none 
knows. 



BE CONTENT. 

Shall we seek a soul in you, 

Fair, and fairest for an hour ; 
Seek for fragrance in the hue 

Of a scentless scarlet flower ? 

Let the royal rose embower 
Shadows cool with grass and dew 

Love has roses for his dower, 
Yet we love the poppies too. 

Poppy and pomegranate — these 
Are enough, we say, to bless ; 

Fire and fruit and sleep and ease — 
Wherefore should we seek to press 
More than these from loveliness ? 

Leave the labour to the bees ; 
Though its flame be incenseless, 

Yet the flower has power to please. 



DOWN THE RIVER. 

The last of the twilight slowly 

Follows the daylight dead, 
Where a bank of cloud lies lowly, 

And rimmed with a murky red. 

From the long dark marshes and levels 
The mists reek up to the sky 

Like steam of the witches' revels. 
Or wings of the fiends that fly. 

The water is widening seaward, 
The black banks vanish afar, 

And the darkness deepens to leeward, 
A night with never a star. 

For the wet sails swell and shiver 
As the wet wind sets to the sea ; 

And over the rainy river, 

As ghosts to the gloom, go we. 



THE THREE WITNESSES. 

The sands that bury and forget, 

The sea's forgetfulness of foam, 
The sky that never knew us yet, 

Stand round about our homeless home. 
Wet weeds upon unnoted graves, 

Heavens clenched in clouds of pitiless grey, 
And refluent ruin of white waves, 

These are the words they say. 

Earth can but say the speech of years, 
Slow days and years and times that tire 

With trouble of man's fruitless tears 
And unattainable desire ; 

And each man answers back the earth 
With life whose limits have but held 

One only gain of little worth, 
A kiss unchronicled. 



ON THE BRIDGE. 

All the storm has rolled away, 
Only now a cloud or two 

Drifts in ragged disarray 

Over the deep darkened blue ; 

And the risen golden moon 

Shakes the shadows of the trees 
Round the river's stillnesses 

And the birdsong of the June. 

Under me the current glides, 
Brown and deep and dimly lit, 

Soundless save against the sides 
Of the arch that narrows it ; 

And the only sound that grieves 
Is a noise that never stops, 
Footsteps of the falling drops 

Down the ladders of the leaves. 



NOCTURNE. 

The twilight ebbs across the fading sky, 
And the tide sinks, and the long beach is dry 

Save where the bitter pools and streamlets 
steep 
The barren sand, like tears of misery 
That the sad sea is weeping, even as I 

For pain of love and sorrow without sleep. 

I lean into the night with panting lips ; 
There is no air to shake the sails of ships 

And rouse the beating pulses of the deep— 
Only a sound of the thin brook that drips, 
And sighing ripples on the sandy strips, 

Moved by the moving tide that knows not 
sleep. 



20 POEMS. 

Yet now the sea is still and pacified, 

The sighing softens as the sands grow wide, 

At the far end of the long backward sweep, 
The utter ebb and pausing of the tide ; 
For the sea-winds and all the waves have died, 

And the world's trouble almost seems to 
sleep. 

Last night I dreamed that I lay happily 
Where the deep water and the foam are free, 

And all strange lovely creatures swim and 
creep ; 
My hair was as the sea-weed in the sea, 
And the green light was tender over me, 

So I was glad to feel myself asleep. 

It may be thus that I shall seek for rest 
"When the full tide comes calling from the 
west 

With sound of voices not as those that weep ; 
It may be this shall soothe the heaving breast, 
The lips unloved and the hot hands unpressed, 

For surely in the ocean there is sleep. 



NOCTURNE. 21 

And yet, O eyes forgetful of your faith ! 
O love, will you remember but in death ? 

Is there no echo that your heart can keep ? 
The tide has turned, and with the tide its 

breath 
Comes landward whispering, yet what it saith 

I know not. I will go and strive to sleep. 



NIGHT. 

O mother Night, older than this creation, _ 
Who wast in the beginning without name, 

From generation unto generation 
Thou art unchanging, and thy years the 
same. 

Day's hot short life lies dead beneath thy 
kisses, 

Killed with sweet sleep and lullaby of night ; 
And in thine infinite echoless abysses 

All light is lost, and shadow of all light. 

For light is of the suns whose ceaseless 
motion 

Ripples the ether outwards from their place; 
Thine only is the far enfolding ocean, 

The boundless, waveless sea of sunless space. 



NIGHT. 23 

There time is not, nor measure of any hours ; 

Only the darkness of that deathful sea 
Feels stars come out upon its edge like flowers, 

And fade like flowers through eternity. 

Yet art thou loving unto us, O mother, 
To give us rest from toiling of our days ; 

We are thy children, born not of another, 
We singers of thy perfectness and praise. 

Time was when all that smote the harp to 
ringing 
With tuneful trouble of the trembling chords, 
Had the strong sense of sunlight in their 
singing, 
Crowned with the laurel, conquerors and 
lords. 

We are weary now of watching for the morn- 
ing, 
The dawn that is not of the sun of song : 
No bird-note of the coming day gives warning, 
Though the stars wane, and we have waited 
long. 



24 POEMS. 

Shall we watch on, till every star that twinkled 

Be swept as dust from off the heavenly way, 

And the grey East grow white with foam-flakes 

sprinkled, 

Cast from the champing of the steeds of 

day? 

Sweeter to look when the slow sun has faded 
Into the heaving waters of the West, 

And shadows darken, and the lights are shaded, 
And the sea's trouble ripples into rest. 

Far down the cloudlets drift in red and amber, 
Fallen feathers of the golden hours that fly ; 

Up from the eastern gates thy footsteps 
clamber, 
And thy blown hair makes shadow in the sky. 

The shining stars are strewn upon thy tresses, 
The wind is soft with breathings of thy 
lips; 

Thy magic moonlight silvers and caresses 
The sleeping cities and the sailing ships. 



NIGHT. 25 

Thou art the queen of passion and of pleasure, 
Mother of all loves beautiful or base ; 

Kisses and smiles and tears are of thy treasure, 
Sighing and sleep are given us of thy grace. 

Thine are the loves that live, the loves that 

wither, 

Whispers, and faces seen through lattice bars, 

Breathings of flute and tinkle of trembling 

cither, 

And sound of singing underneath the stars. 

Thine also is the web none may unravel, 
Woven of delicate dreams and threads of 
thought, 
That clothes the ways of sleep wherethrough 
we travel 
With veils of visions wonderfully wrought. 

Therefore we turn to thee, O Night, our 
mother, 

With thy dark dreamful poppies garlanded 
There is no man to call the dreamer brother, 

Nor has he kin save thee and all thy dead. 



26 POEMS. 

We do not ask thee for the gift of glory, 
The boon of love, or anything but rest ; 

To sleep, while all the worlds grow old and 
hoary, 
Upon the pillow of thy pulseless breast. 

Shield us alone from daylight that discovers 
Too soon the secrets and the sleeps of earth: 

Mother of Love and queen of many lovers, 
Grant us thy rest from trouble of grief and 
mirth. 

So may we sleep with all that were before us, 
Till strong Time tremble, being very old ; 

Till singing spheres be soundless in their 
chorus, 
And all the circles of the suns grow cold ; 

Till the faint stars fade out like dying embers, 
Till the waste worlds lie emptied of their 
light, 

And we are as a dream that none remembers, 
Save only thee, O mighty mother Night ! 



A MEMORY. 

Not in summer days, 

When the noontide blazes 

Through a fdmy haze 

On the poor parched daisies 

And the glaring ways ; 

When you tire of play, 
Tire of talk and laughter, 

Of the languid day 

And what may be after, 

All but sleep, you say ; 

When the years to be 

Shadow not your pleasure 

In the world you see 
Full of laughing leisure, 

Think not then of me. 



28 POEMS. 

Not in dancing time, 
Nor in time of singing, 

Full of sound and rhyme 
And the thrill of ringing 

Strings and feet that chime"; 

But when coming day 
Brings an end of dances, 

Beauty fades away, 

Lamps and flowers and fancies, 

As the world grows grey ; 

When the sound of wheels 
Wearies you in going, 

And the landscape feels 

Strange beyond all knowing 

As the dawning steals ; 

When the last stars shine 
Faint as dying embers, 

May my soul divine 
That your heart remembers 

Any word of mine ? 



A MEMORY. 29 

As the grey clouds glow 

Into gold above you, 
Will your dreaming know 

What I feel that love you, 
I that love you so ? 



IN PACE. 

When you are dead some day, my dear. 

Quite dead and under ground, 
Where you will never see or hear 

A summer sight or sound, 
What shall remain of you in death, 

When all our songs to you 
Are silent as the bird whose breath 

Has sung the summer through ? 

I wonder, will you ever wake, 

And with tired eyes again 
Live for your old life's little sake 

An age of joy or pain ? 
Shall some stern destiny control 

That perfect form, wherein 
I hardly see enough of soul 

To make your life a sin ? 



IN PACE. 31 

For, we have heard, for all men born 

One harvest-day prepares 
Its golden gamers for the corn, 

And fire to burn the tares ; 
But who shall gather into sheaves, 

Or turn aside to blame 
The poppies' puckered helpless leaves, 

Blown bells of scarlet flame ? 



No hate so hard, no love so bold 

To seek your bliss or woe ; 
You are too sweet for hell to hold, 

And heaven would tire you so. 
A little while your joy shall be, 

And when you crave for rest 
The earth shall take you utterly 

Again into her breast. 



And we will find a quiet place 
For your still sepulchre, 

And lay the flowers upon your face 
Sweet as your kisses were, 



32 POEMS. 

And with hushed voices void of mirth 
Spread the light turf above, 

Soft as the silk you loved on earth, 
As much as you could love. 

Few tears, but once, our eyes shall shed, 

Nor will we sigh at all, 
But come and look upon your bed 

When the warm sunlights fall. 
Upon that grave no tree of fruit 

Shall grow, nor any grain, 
Only one flower of shallow root 

That will not spring again. 



A PETITION. 

What way men have not loved you in 

Shall I find out to love ? 
What sweeter song shall I begin 

Than those you weary of? 
None in the deep still Maytime hours 

May move you with sweet words ; 
You walk above a world of flowers, 

Amid a world of birds. 

The sunlight lies upon the leaves 

Unwavering all the day, 
The heat across the deep blue weaves 

The mist in some strange way. 
At night adown the garden green 

A faint breeze sighs and fails, 
And fountains fill the pause between 

Songs of the nightingales. 



34 POEMS. 

Flowers are enough for your desire, 

Unstirred with love of us ; 
Ah, can you not, when you but tire 

Of longing languorous, 
Lay your whole face within some white 

Magnolia's mighty cup, 
And drink in stillness of delight 

Its cool sweet fragrance up ? 



You have your roses' faces fair, 

Your wild birds' loving note, 
The sun's kiss golden on your hair, 

The hair's clasp round your throat : 
You have no lack beneath the moon 

Of amorous song or sigh ; 
How can I find you any boon 

You have not more than I ? 

I have no skill with song or strings 
To make an hour more sweet, 

No golden gifts or precious things 
To lay before your feet ; 



A PETITION. 35 

Yet more than do your birds and bees 

I love your loveliness, 
Because I need you more than these, 

And may deserve you less. 

Because I cannot give you aught 

And you can give me all, 
Open some door of tender thought 

Within your garden wall, 
That I may walk the whole year through 

Along the alleys green, 
Lord of the flowers, and one with you, 

O lady-love and queen. 



MORNING IN SPRING. 

A spring of snow and sleet and rain 

In this unlovely lifeless land, 
And but the old work to do again, 

The old walks and toils for foot and hand. 
Summer is somewhere in the South, 

Surely, and sleep and love and ease, 
And murmurs of the singing mouth, 
And ripple of still seas. 

All sweet things lean towards the sun, 
And come with summer, and depart ; 

Sunshine and life and love as one, 
Music and flowers and song and art. 

Here in the sodden sullen dawn 

The thin rain drizzles down like tears ; 

The foul stream crawls through field and lawn 
Where the mist never clears. 



SONG. 

Night, that flies with wings of blue 

Spread above the earth asleep, 
Blesses all the lands with dew 

And with starlight all the deep, 
Giving rest from toil and wrong, 

Quiet sleep and dreams of bliss, 

To the lover like a kiss, 
To the poet like a song. 

Weary with the glaring day 

And the windless heat of noon, 
Now the folded flowers asway 

Slumber to the fountain's tune. 
Stars are tremulous above, 

Shining only for our sake ; 

Only we are left awake 
Save the nightingales and Love. 



BARCAROLLE. 

CHOPIN, OP. 60. 

(Dedicated to A. W. Wiseman.) 

The fiery circle of the dance has burst in 

flaming flakes, 
Faces afire with lovers' thirst that only loving 

slakes : 
Dark mantles fall upon the glow of gems and 

golden hair, 
The embers of the burning ball drift down the 

marble stair. 
Fainter the footsteps sound until they cease 

beyond the gates 
Where the black boats are clustered round, 

and the black water waits. 

Love that I knew not yesterday, love that I 

love to-night, 
Guide on the seaward way, my star, now that 

no star gives light ; 



BARCAROLLE. 39 

The dark lagoon lies still, the air of night is 

dead and warm, 
Edged with a ghostly moon the clouds drift up 

before the storm : 
Out of the sultry Venice - ways take wing and 

sail with me 
Where the long wind comes wandering across 

the lonely sea. 



Between the frowning walls we glide, and from 
an open door 

Faint music falls like chiming spray struck from 
the rhythmic oar. 

Ah, listen now and hear the rhyme our boat- 
man chants astern, 

Some love-song of a gondolier, that names 
each flower in turn : 

'''■Heart of my rose that no one knows, unclose 
thy lord to greet I 

Nay, for the bee has been with me, and he has 
found vie sweet. 



40 POEMS. 

Give poppy-seed whereon to feed, nor heed my 

grief again! 
The poppy saith, * Nought profiteth but death for 

/overs' pain.' " 
My rose whose heart the bees have kissed, my 

fieriest, darkest one, 
Whose black scorched petals curl apart, burnt 

by the summer sun, 
Say, shall we strive with poppy-seed to send 

our pain to sleep, 
Or shall Death find our love alive, a flower for 

him to reap ? 
A flower that blossomed in a night, how shall 

it face the years, 
Born in the tapers' light for sun, fed with a 

shower of tears ? 
Brief barren showers, how shall they make one 

bloom outlive the rest ? 
The black canal is full of flowers, fallen from 

hair or breast. 



BARCAROLLE. 41 

A little stir of cooler air comes on us as we 

glide, 
Faint ripples lap on wall and stair, and sob 

against the side. 
Behind us, like a gondola, the city lies afloat, 
Curtained with storm-cloud blind and dense, 

as if a lover's boat. 
Sweet, let us pause and drift awhile before we 

seek the main ; 
Lean back and clasp me not, nor lift your lips 

to mine again. 
The dark sea of the South is more to me than 

love and bliss, 
Better than any woman's mouth the ripples 

sob and kiss — 
A cool soft kiss of liquid lips that do not leave 

a sting, 
A sob not born of hearts that grieve, or joy of 

anything ; 
Only the murmur wherein we with all earth's 

voices blend, 
The trouble of the restless sea, that sorrows till 

the end. 



42 POEMS. 

"White lilies set zvhere streams forget the wet 

hills where they rise, 
You lie and dream upon the stream, and gleam 

beneath mine eyes ; 
Where has she been, my love, my queen, unseen 

of all but you ? 
l Ask of the brook what way she took — we look 

but on the blue.' " 
Where has she strayed indeed, my queen, 

whom I have sought for long ? 
I love you, sweet — be not afraid that I will do 

you wrong ; 
Ah, shall I love you best of all, I that but love 

you well ? 
Surely the sea's unrest bespeaks the secret it 

can tell. 
Hark how the ripples' fingers sound against 

the gliding boat, 
With touch that lingers, striking still one 

melancholy note. 



BARCAROLLE. 43 

The dim lagoon lies wide behind, the waste of 

sea ahead ; 
The black clouds hide the moon, and roof a 

world where all seems dead. 
Long waves come heaving slowly in from far 

across the night, 
Each like a moving bar of shade, flecked with 

a phantom light. 
Against my face no wind blows cold, keen 

with the ocean-smell, 
Though the whole sea heaves onward, rolled in 

one resistless swell ; 
And the broad waves grow steeper now, and 

as they meet our bark 
White spray jets upward from the bow, a flash 

against the dark. 
As with one will the endless host moves on 

across the world, 
Though the wind's clarion yet is still, the 

lightning's banner furled ; 



44 POEMS. 

No sound is there from rear to van to guide the 

ranks arow, 
But the sea knows the storm is near, and soon 

the air shall know. 



Come nearer, sweet, and clasp me round, that 

no ghost glide between j 
The silence fills with sound of rustling spirit- 
wings unseen : 
Soft whispers, sudden sway of plumes, with 

little wafts of air 
Send tremors through the veins, and play 

along the tingling hair. 
Ah, love, you start — was it the foam that fell 

on neck or face, 
Or did cold fingers part the pearls and slide 

beneath the lace ? 
Above the lonely waste, who knows what 

things may crowd and fly, 
Or where Death walks, a pillar of grey cloud 

from surge to sky ? 



BARCAROLLE. 45 

Who knows what things may plot unseen to 
crush out life and form 

With some blind throe of brute embrace be- 
tween the sea and storm? 



Turn back, and seek the home of men; another 

time, maybe, 
The butterflies may roam the blue above a 

rippling sea ; 
But Psyche's wings are slight and frail, and 

every dash of spray 
Can drown the Eros of a night, the beauty of 

a day. 
Denser 'and denser from the East the vapours 

fold and crowd, 
Before the cold pale moon that strives in vain 

to pierce the cloud, 
Like some white maiden wandering round a 

house of secret sin, 
And waiting for the sound that tells of murder 

done within. 



46 POEMS. 

The sea is cruel in the dark, beneath the pall 

of sky, 
"With long pursuing waves that lift our bark 

and pass it by. 



Sing, love, to drive my dreams away; your 

song shall fall on me 
Soft as the musical bright spray upon the 

gloomy sea ; 
Till black against the night astern we note the 

island shore, 
And all the wide lagoon lies still around our 

boat once more. 
"Dear, was it ever yesterday, and were we 

living then ? 
Some woman lived, and sweet to her were songs 

of other men ; 
Some man there was that set his voice to love- 
songs old or new — 
But yet it was not I, my love ; say it was 

not you I 



BARCAROLLE. 47 

Dear, will to-morrow ever dawn, and shall 

we see its sun ? 
Some woman 's weeping face shall sorrow when 

the night is done ; 
Some man shall curse the golden sky that mocks 

his pain above — 
But it will not be L; say, will it be you, my 

love ? " 



Ah, sweet, enough — the waves are past, and 

see, the moon on high 
Has found at last a sudden gap in the embattled 

sky j 
White beams flood downwards from the rift on 

distant spire and dome, 
A rippling path of silver seems to guide us to 

our home ; 
And a soft breeze from out the west blows cool 

against my brow, 
Sweet as your breath whose sweeter song 

caressed me even now. 



48 POEMS. 

Yet the great' storm-cloud still grows high, a 

boundless wall of black, 
Above the trouble of the wind that strives to 

sigh it back ; 
Beyond the petulant weak pulse and strife of 

summer's breath, 
Across the life of earth there comes a darkness 

as of death ; 
Yet see how bright the ripples curl, how fair 

the moonbeams play ; 
The water plashes from the oar in pearl and 

silver spray — 
Look forward, turn not back, nor watch the 

climbing cloud above, 
Think that no storm is on our track, no death 

behind our love. 



A double shade of cloud and wall falls on our 

way again ; 
The boat-song echoes strangely loud along the 

gloomy lane. 



BARCAROLLE. 49 

ii Here, love, we met, nor can we yet forget the 

time of old, 
The long delights of sounds and sights, white 

nights and days of gold. 
What roses bound the hedges round and crowned 

our garden green ! 
Of all it gave, we only save a grave where 

flowers have been." 
Surely our song is sad to-night, as though 

beneath our mirth 
Sounded the long, long monotone of all the 

mourning earth ; 
Kiss me, and bid me sing to you, before the 

thunders come 
To drown the thrill of voice or string, and 

strike our music dumb. 



wonderful white star above, sea serene and 

xvide, 

1 lie afloat upon your love, nor seek to sound its 

tide ; 



50 POEMS. 

I feel the ripples stir alone, and listen 

dreamily 
To sweet tones growing tenderer with sighings 

of the sea. 
Beyond the niter west, far out across a main 

unknown, 
Is there no island of the blest, made for our sake 

alone ? 
Surely the bars of cloud but hide the sunset 

land away, 
Watched by the circling of strange stars that 

wait for us alway. 



There is no star to greet my song, or show us 

where we drift ; 
The low dim cloud that roofs the street is 

dense, without a rift, 
One dark unbroken flow that moves as with 

an evil will, 
So slow, so smooth, we only feel that it is 

coming still. 



BARCAROLLE. 51 

No thunder yet, though now and then a 

shudder shakes the air, 
No sound but of the oar that makes a ripple 

on the stair ; 
The water widens out again, and shows the 

long lagoon, 
A dim vast plain that shivers for the storm 

that must be soon. 
O love, look back at once, and mark how 

swift and suddenly 
A race of summer lightning runs along the 

edge of sea ! 
Strange phantoms walk the cloudy wall that 

veils the fire behind, 
The wild dance flames, and flames again, and 

shuts, and all is blind. 
And through the dark the wavelets sob their 

one mysterious word, 
As they have ever done before there was an 

ear that heard, 
As they will do when all that are die as the 

past has died, 
And one last night without a star shuts on a 

shoreless tide. 



52 POEMS. 

There is an end to sailing now, an end to 

song and oar ; 
Close to the prow the torches gleam that guide 

ns to the door, 
And on the ripples' restless dance the flashes 

leap and glow, 
Flame splashes from the oar and breaks the 

tide to flame below. 
A little wave laps unaware along the silent 

street, 
And lips above the lowest stair, as if to kiss 

your feet, 
Then the great door heavily falls and shuts 

you in with me, 
"While the first peal of thunder calls the storm 

across the sea. 



A TRANSPARENT ALLEGORY. 

A SAINT in a painted window 

Stands pure in her place and sweet. 

For what can the strength of sin do 
To climb to her holy feet ? 

And men in the church pray to her, 
But she never sways her form, 

And the summer sun shines through her, 
And finds no blood to warm. 

As she stands there smiling faintly 

"With a glory over her head, 
You think her alive and saintly ; 

She is nothing but glass and lead. 



54 POEMS 

She knows not if day be splendid, 

Nor grieves when the shadows pass 
She will stay till the world is ended, 

Or somebody breaks the glass. 



A BIRTHDAY ODE TO DAISY, 
December 31ST. 

Shall we say that flowers are dead, 

Times of daisies over, 
Now the grave-like garden bed 

Has no leaf for cover ? 
Though a blossom dares not peer 

Through the garden mazes, 
Every day in all the year 

Is a day of daisies. 

Over meadows wet and cold 

Chilling winter passes, 
Yet the silver stars and gold 

Gleam among the grasses 



56 POEMS. 

Fearing not for winter snows, 
Still your flower uncloses, 

Fair as any bloom that blows 
In the time of roses. 

Scent of violets that grew 

White or dusky-hearted, 
Over meadows bright with dew 

In the days departed — 
These, and not a flower, I bring 

From the old year taken : 
Flowers shall be not till the spring 

In the new year waken. 

Why was not your birthday set 

In the spring's flower-garden, 
That my gift of violet 

Need not crave your pardon ? 
Many reasons could I give, 

This perchance the greatest ; 
Dear, the year that saw you live 

Kept its best till latest. 



From Theophile Gautier. 



THE POET AND THE MULTITUDE. 

The plain said to the mountain's barren spire, 
"Nothing will grow on thy wind -beaten 
brow." 
And to the poet, bent above his lyre, 
The throng said, " Dreamer, of what use art 
thou?" 

The mountain wrathfully replied, " Thou fool, 
Who is it makes thy harvests grow, but I ? 

The fierce breath of the fiery South I cool, 
And catch the clouds in mid-flight through 
the sky. 



58 POEMS. 

" My fingers shape the avalanche's snow, 
My crucible melts the hard glacier's glass, 

And from my pure white breasts, in ceaseless 
flow, 
Long silver threads of nourishing rivers 



The poet answered to the crowd again, 
" Let my pale brow rest on my idle hand ; 

Does not my smitten side let the life drain, 
A spring to quench the thirst of every 
land?" 



BY THE SEA. 

The moon from her hands that dangled 

Far up, has languidly 
Dropped her great fan bespangled 

On the blue floor of the sea. 

She stoops to reach it, and lingers 
With white arm stretched to save ; 

But the fan escapes her fingers 
On the wash of the passing wave. 

To give it you, Moon, I would even 

Plunge in the salt sea-flow, 
If you would come down from heaven, 

Or I to the heaven could go ! 



From Theodore de Banville. 

r. 
NIGHT. 

We bless the coming of the Night, 

Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free. 

Life's clamour and anxiety 
Her mantle covers out of sight. 
All eating cares have taken flight, 

The scented air is wine to me ; 
We bless the coming of the Night, 

Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free. 
Rest now, O reader worn and white, 

Driven by some divinity. 

Aloft, like sparkling hoarfrost, see 
A starry ocean throb in light, 
We bless the coming of the Night. 



THE MOON. 

The Moon, with all her tricksy ways, 
Is like a careless young coquette, 
Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet 

And flies or follows or delays. 

By night, along the sand-hills' maze, 
She leads and mocks you till you fret ; 

The Moon, with all her tricksy ways, 
Is like a careless young coquette. 

And oft she veils herself in haze, 
A cloak before her splendour set ; 
She is a silly charming pet ; 

We needs must give her love and praise — 

The Moon, with all her tricksy ways. 



SONNETS. 



A HOT DAY. 

The day is drooping with the summer's spell, 
Without a wind to stir the rippling sheet 
Of ocean into billows, and to beat 
The brink of beach with those loud lengths of 

swell 
That scooped the sand to wavelets where they 
fell 
At the last tide ; no breaths of breezes meet 
The outstretched face that craves for cool ; 
the heat 
Beats down so blindingly, methinks 'tis well 
That the blue splendours of the upper sky 
Are duller for a smouldering dreamy haze : 
Yet even so this stillness is to me 
A state in which I neither live nor die, 

But lie and hear through lengths of dazzling 
days 
Low laughter of the countless-dimpling 



THE MAKING OF THE WORLD. 

If science tells us true, and if this earth 

That swings through space, clothed with a 

steam of air, 
Was once a flaming mist, then, black and 
bare, 
A place of gloom and fare and bitter dearth ; 
Then out of death sprang life, in lowest birth, 
From seething of the slime, yet climbed the 

stair 
Of upward being, growing still more fair 
Till the wide world was filled with light and 

mirth — 
If this be so, O man, what wilt thou say ? 
" There is no God," thou say est ; " chance 
is all." 
Did chance then plan, in that far unknown day, 
The long wise growth of life, and shape 
the whole ? 
Nay, through all nature's sun-pierced shadow- 
wall 
Our souls behold one ceaseless-working 
Soul. 



THE LIMITS. 

In silent pauses of the pulseless night, 
In thrilling pulses of the pauseless day, 
Thoughts come to me, and songs, yet flee 
away 
Before I chain them down with words, and 

write. 
I am as one that stands and sees the flight 
Of many-coloured gleaming showers of spray 
Cast from some wave on brink of crescent 
bay, 
Bubbles that in their breaking grow more 

bright. 
But thou, the mother of the spray, O sea, 
When shall I loose myself from barren sand 
And sail far out into the misty wreath 
That shrouds thy dim horizon-bound from me, 
Till sinks the last blue lessening line of land, 
And all is sky above and sea beneath ? 



AFTER THE CONCERT. 

Flowers, that have stayed the concert out, I 
bring ; 
Roses whose petals have been lightly stirred 
By breath of men's applause, and sweetest 
word 
In music of the mouths of those that sing. 
They felt the single violins, that ring 
Even as the clear note of a lonely bird, 
And full quartett, that through all hearts 
that heard 
Pulsed fiercely, lightened on from string to 

string. 
All this the flowers have heard and yet are 
fresh, 
All this the flowers have treasured carefully : 
So set them in your bright hair's golden mesh 
Above the cameo of your perfect ear, 
And ask them what the music said to me. 
What will they say ? Not all I would, I 
fear. 



A THANKSGIVING. 

Father and Giver of all lovely things, 

For all I praise Thy name ; but most of all 
For those more subtle gladnesses, that fall 
Unnoticed on the crowd that sways and swings 
Driven by desire of wealth with ceaseless stings ; 
Half-tints, and echoes low and musical, 
Shadows and sunlights on a leafy wall, 
Or some intense sharp harmony of strings 
That makes the soul as lightning for a time, 
Or tender shade within a blossom's fold, 
Or wavelets brightening on a pebbly ford, 
Or perfect sweetness of a rippling rhyme, 
Or green of sunset through a gap of gold — 
These, more than thunder, show me Thee, 
O Lord. 



DAY. 
(the picture by e. burne-jones.) 

Day, the strong youth, across the threshold 
stands, 
With hand upon the morning's open door, 
And out behind him grows from more to 
more 
Light, and the murmur of the labouring lands. 
He hath the golden flame within his hands 
That lights the green sea whitening to the 

shore ; 
Yet nothing careth he for toil or war, 
Or joy or grief, though he unloose the bands 
That hold them down in slumber ; and the 
earth 
Wakes, and the daisies open : only he 
Hath no delight or woe for darkness done. 
He saith, ' ' My life is weary at its birth, 
The thing that hath been is the thing to be, 
And there is no new thing beneath the sun. " 



NIGHT. 

(THE picture by e. burne-jones.) 

White stars come out in darkening blue of 
skies, 
White foam upon the blue of darkening seas, 
And the surf's murmur moans along the 
breeze, 
Filled with faint echoes as of far-off cries 
Repeating, " Vanity of vanities, 

All, all is vanity;" and hearing these 
Night stands upon the threshold of the leas, 
Blue-clad, with fair slow hands and slumbrous 

eyes. 
And the wind blows to her across the deep 
The voice of the dead Day, " O fairest one, 
Nought good was there in me from star to 
star, 
And hast thou any between sun and sun ? " 
So comes the cry; and from her height 
afar 
Night whispers back, " There is no good but 
sleep." 



MIDNIGHT. 

A space of blue unfathomable night, 

Solemn with sense of all the stars unseen — 
Veiled shades of banks, a shadow bridge 
between, 
And mist-encircled blurs and points of light — 
The river rolling in mysterious might, 

And dim as dreams that doubt of what they 

mean, 
And boats and men, as ghosts of what has 
been — 
All this we feel, with deeper sense than sight. 
Day would give back dull roofs and blackened 
towers, 
A sullen stream, grey lightless piles of stone, 
And fierce pursuit of pleasures nought 
enjoyed ; 
Better the mystic moonless midnight hours, 
And the blue vision, limitless and lone, 
Of the vast city asleep and vaster void. 



APOLOGY. 

We do not from the garden of a year, 

Planted but late, require such cooling shade 
As by some spreading cedar might be made ; 
Nor do we look for roses to appear, 
Such as in garden of Sultan or Vizier 

Made sweet the winds that with their petals 

played 
Round rich pavilion and through lit arcade, 
In golden Eastern tales that still are dear. 
Nor do we seek for fruit ; we but desire 
That some sweet common flowers may meet 
the spring ; 
So are these all that men may have of me: 
No royal lyric rose with heart of fire, 

But the small earnest of some better thing, 
If no blight blast it, in the years to be. 



UNSATISFIED. 

I think that man would die of weariness 
Were there no seas too deep for him to 

wade, 
No wastes of sky to make his thought afraid, 
No unclimbed peaks with pure snow passion- 
less, 
No still-receding aim above success, 

No depths of joy and grief, of light and 

shade, 
But all things equable and smooth and staid, 
Nor mighty overmuch to curse or bless. 
We must have mysteries too great for us, 
And hear strange feet on paths by men 
untrod, 
Whos2 sound is music thrilled with joyful 
pain. 
Ah, let life never be not marvellous, 

For Love, like him of Judah sent by God, 
Dies, if he go by the old ways again. 



— ■ 



A BRIDE'S THOUGHT. 

My unknown poet-lover, whom in dreams 

I lean to from unreal reality, 

And feel for thee, and faintly seem to see 
Thy glory of singing, as a moon that gleams 
Misty on rippling reaches of strange streams, 

Or star, the prophet of the sun to be — ■ 

What is it that myself has done to me ? 

thou that somewhere art, who is this seems 
To be and be beloved, and is not thou ? 

His lesser light is mine, who yet desire 
To climb the sky to thy far height of fire ; 

1 would have died to know thee, but not now, 

And having seen, had counted death most 

sweet : 
But now I pray our lives may never meet. 



mmm 



A SIMILE. 

I never saw a sight that I might call 
Like to that marvel of your golden hair 
That catches all men seeing in its snare, 
Save once ; and on this wise did it befall. 
I floated down a river, past the wall 
Of many a goodly garden, when the air 
Was full of summer sunshine everywhere, 
And nothing seemed to be in life at all 
But only dreams ; and drifting through a 
bridge 
Low-arched, and built of grey old carven 

stone 
Whereon the moss of many years had grown, 
Behold, the sunlight struck from every ridge 
Of onward-twining ripples, leapt and made 
A net of golden light across the shade. 



IN CHAPEL. 

O ACADEMIC preacher, rest, and spare 
Thy pious platitudes, nor half-intone 
The words that up to the vast vaulting drone 
And mingle with their echoes in the air, 
Till the long murmur eddies everywhere 
Down from each great rose-carven central 

stone 
To vex my dreaming mind, that now has 
grown 
To more a mood of poetry than prayer ; 
For over glories of the gleaming pane 

There flits a face that here no hand might 

paint, 
Too fair for any loveless sinless saint : 
And a sound haunts me like the sweet refrain 
Of some old lay of love, that ever stirs 
Across the chanting of the choristers. 



AFTERNOON CHAPEL. 

Cloud overhead and darkening of the skies, 
Yet the glow lingers on the pictured panes ; 
Reluctantly the gold and ruby wanes 
From robes of saints and royal blazonries. 
So let the monotones of prayer arise, 

And the choir's music, louder than the 

rain's, 
Blend with the organ. Though the wind 
complains, 
Without the windows still its wailing dies. 
But we must leave at length the goodly fane, 
And as the closing of the carven door 
Shuts in the vision of the shrine dim-lit, 
We meet the passionate weeping of the rain ; 
The wind's old wail is sadder than before, 
And nothing in the music answers it. 



m*mm 



IN THE HAMMOCK. 

There is a tremor in the windless air 
That scarce may stir the leaves above my 

head ; 
The weariness of sunlight lies like lead 
On the gold -green of grasses, and the glare 
Of scarlet flowers burns all the flower-beds 
bare 
Some of that blinding splendour of sheer 

red ; 
And I methinks am living and not dead, 
But other life there seems not anywhere. 
Yet somewhere surely are the mighty throngs 
Of those that toil and sorrow and are wise 
More than my thought can ever under- 
stand ; 
Less seem they than the least of dreamy songs 
In the shut book of songs unread that lies 
Under the hammock, fallen from my hand. 



BY THE SEA. 



White sails across a summer sea 
That shimmers up in lines of light 
To break in ripples, where the white 

Of foam-flakes wavers languidly, 

And the clear under stones seem free 
And dancing in the wave's delight — 
O love, has all sweet sound and sight 

No speech, no song, for you and me ? 

What shall we do to make the day 
Perfect, that in all days to come 
We may not find a fault in this ? 

Shall we search out to sing or say 

Some sweetest thing, or but be dumb, 
And let the sea speak, and our kiss ? 



BY THE SEA. 



So be it ; yet neither sea nor sky 
Can be our love's interpreter, 
With their mere depth of blue, and stir 

Of flashing waves that break and die. 

We have grown wiser, you and I, 

Too wise to dream, as those that were, 
Of any sight or sound of her, 

Foam-born, that heard the lover's cry. 

Would not this water seem as fair 
Across your face, as at your feet, 

Washing among its weeds and strays 

That treasure of loose-shaken hair, 
Too lovely utterly, my sweet, 
For any words of mine to praise ? 



Ah, kiss, as ripples kiss the sand, 
Cling, as the weed upon the stone, 
Sing, like the sea's soft undertone, 

Songs that I may not understand, 

G 



82 POEMS. 

But rest entranced therein, and fanned 
By breath of your sweet lips alone 
Onward towards the blue unknown 

Shore of some sea of fairyland ; 

So that we two may once behold, 
In this long loving afternoon, 
That unreached happy haven rise, 

Before the night's first breath comes cold, 
And the white crescent of the moon 
Grows golden as the daylight dies. 



CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC. 

Lo, when we pour the wine of story or song, 
Art comes before us as a cupbearer, 
With many carven cups and flagons fair, 
Saying, "Choose now thy vessel from the 

throng 
To pour libation. Some for ages long 

Have kept the fragrance of the wines that 

were, 
But two are chiefest, wonderful and rare, 
And if thy wine be mighty, they are strong. 
See, as I turn the cups, how one is wrought 
With the fair gods of high Hellenic thought, 
And shock of great glad fights, and feastings 
free; 
The other, chased with leaves and shields 

of knights, 
Shell-shapen, hath within it shadowy 
lights, 
Whispers of woods and sighings of the sea. " 



THE CREED. 

All through the creed's unwavering monotone 
The organ sounded softly, chiming still, 
Through all the changes of its wayward will, 
To that one note, though not to that alone, 
In weird sad chords, like the wind's word 
unknown 
That to the silent hearer seems to thrill 
Through the long grasses of some lonely hill, 
The lonelier for the sunlight broadly thrown. 
So in the music came a note more strange 
Caught from the world's mysterious harmony, 
The eternal sorrow of elemental song, 
That seems to chime in its unceasing change 
With our beliefs ; but still beneath them lie 
The undertones of doubt and aimless 
wrong. 



THE SPHINX. 

The Faith of man is as a Sphinx that lies 
And gazes evermore into the West, 
Facing with human eyes and lion's breast 
The desert drifting through the centuries 
Eastward and eastward ; when the daylight dies 
It sees the sandy ripples, crest by crest, 
Redden with sunset, till the earth be blest 
With a cool wind beneath the cloudless skies. 
The pageant of the passing stars alway 
Rolls on above the silent stony face 

That holds communion with the secret 

night ; 
And the first arrows of the eastern light 
Strike on the Sphinx, and show from day to 
day 
The sand a little higher round its base. 



COMPENSATION. 

For our lost summer, our lost friends, 

What shall be given to us again ? 

Long autumn days of driving rain, 
And snow wherein the sad year ends. 
These shall be ours to make amends 

With death of joys that still remain ; 

Pain shall be recompensed with pain, 
And grief a greater grief portends. 
Let the rank grass grow wet and long 

Over the dead that lie so still 
In peace, until their lot be ours, 
And we too have for joy and song 

The rain and wind to beat at will 

Our rotting wreaths of funeral flowers. 



THE LAST PICNIC. 

The darkness drew across the wearied earth 
Even as we journeyed, for the way was 

long; 
The stillness of the night was on our song, 
The sadness of the autumn on our mirth. 
For with a foretaste of the days of dearth 
The air was chill; yet in its breath the 

strong 
Sea-savour seemed to raise the ghostly 
throng 
Of joys desired that died before their birth — 
The cravings of our loves that never kissed, 
The words unspoken of our loving lips. 
All flowers were withered ; by our way 
instead 
Black poplars through a moonlit sea of mist 
Peered, like the masts of many sunken ships, 
Wherein our summer dreams lay drowned 
and dead. 



IN AN ALBUM, 
December 23RD. 

Now, when the year is nigh outworn, 
There are no blooms for me to bring ; 
Bloom is of summer and of spring : 

Nor bear I autumn's fruit or corn. 

Snow flecks the naked fields forlorn, 
The bare boughs have not birds to sing, 
And earth holds fast in harbouring 

The whole sweet world of flowers unborn. 

And barren is my field of rhyme, 
Yet what I have, I give to you, 
Greeting ; a little holly spray, 
Harsh, with no tender play of hue, 
Yet not unfitting, since the day 

Is close on holy Christmas-tide. 



IF. 

If I were the seasons' king, 
Is there aught I would not do, 

my sweet, for love of you ? 
Honeysuckle rioting 

Over hedges in the spring, 
Roses all the autumn through, 
If you would, and winter too — 

Gifts like these the days should bring. 

But your hourly whims would tire 

Me to give you your desire, 
Were I lord of time, I fear ; 

Now I rule not frost and fire, 

1 have time to love you, dear, 
All the days of all the year. 



THE IDEAL. 

In a land of changeless skies, 
Under marble towers that keep 
Watch above the purple deep — 
Love, whose fairness dreaming lies 
Out of sight of all men's eyes, 
Do you hear the fountain weep 
Drop by drop across your sleep, 
Or the breeze's perfumed sighs ? 
Still the lids are shut above 
Eyes that are my stars of love, 

And your perfect lips are dumb ; 
Silent, inaccessible, 
In the land I know so well, 
Whither I shall never come. 



Translations from Baudelaire. 

i. 
THE LIFE BEFORE. 

In porches flashing back the sunset dyes 
I dwelt long time, with al A the sea around ; 
At night their tall straight solemn pillars 
frowned 
Like the sea-caves where piers of basalt rise. 
The swell that swayed the picture of the skies 
Mingled in some strange harmony profound 
Its mighty melodies of sovereign sound 
With colours of the sunset in my eyes. 
There lived I in the still delight of calm, 
Circled with sky and glories and great waves, 
And the brown odorous limbs of many slaves, 
Who fanned my forehead with their fronds of 
palm, 
And whose one care was only to divine 
The secret sorrow that would make me 
pine. 



STRANGE PERFUME. 

When, with shut eyes, on some warm autumn 
night, 
I breathe the perfume of your bosom's heat, 
Before me stretch the lands I long to greet, 
Dazzled with beating of monotonous light ; 
Some sleepy isle where Nature gives to sight 
Strange trees and fruits of savour sharp and 

sweet, 
Men whose brown limbs are lean and strong 
and fleet ; 
Women whose eyes are strangely free and 

bright. 
Drawn by your perfume under magic skies, 
I see a bay, filled by a fleet that lies 

At rest from waves that wearied it so long ; 

While the strong scent of the green tamarinds, 

Born through my nostrils on the tropic winds, 

Strikes to my soul, mixed with the mariners' 

song. 



MEDITATION 

Be still, my sorrow, and be strong to bear ; 

The evening thou didst pray for, now comes 
down. 

A veil of dusky air enfolds the town, 
Bringing soft peace to some, to others care. 
Now, while the wretched throngs of soulless 
clay, 

Beneath the pitiless sting of pleasure's whip 

Gather remorse in slavish fellowship, 
Sorrow, give me thy hand, and come away, 
Far from their noise. See the sad years 



Lean from the sky in garb of bygone times, 
Regret that smiles up from the river's 

deep, 
The sun that sinks beneath the bridge to 
sleep, 
And hear the footsteps of the Night that 
climbs 
Like a long shroud, trailing across the East. 



LOVE AND WINE. 

Space is glorious to-day ! 
Casting bit and spur away, 

Let us ride on steeds of wine 

To some fairyland divine ! 
Like two spirits in the spell 
Of a drouth unquenchable, 

Follow the mirage withdrawn 

Down the azure deeps of dawn ! 
Softly swayed upon the wing 

Of the whirlwind where we ride, 
Down our madness, like a stream, 

Dearest, swimming side by side, 
We will fly unwearying 

To the Eden of my dream ! 



LOVE IN DEATH. 

We will have beds with faintest perfumes 
sweet, 
And couches deep as is a sepulchre, 
And strange exotic flowers in order meet, 
That bloomed for us beneath a sky more 
fair. 
So, wearing out at will their latest heat, 

Our souls shall be two mighty torches there. 
And these their double radiance shall repeat 

In mirrors of our minds, a kindred pair. 

Some evening all of rose and shadowy blue, 

We will exchange a single flash, no more, 

Like a long sob, laden with all farewell ; 

After, an angel opening the door, 

Faithful and glad, shall come to light anew 

Dulled mirrors, and the faded flames 
that fell. 



VJ. 

THE DAY'S END. 

Under wan and hueless light, 
Life, that knows not rest nor shame, 
Runs or writhes without an aim ; 

So, when on the verge of sight 

Rises the voluptuous Night, 
Making even hunger stay, 
Hiding even shame away, 

Saith the poet, " O delight ! 

Rest at length for limbs and mind ! 
With a weary heart that holds 
Nought but visions gloomiest, 
Now I will lie down to rest, 
Wrapped within your curtained folds, 

Darkness comforting and kind ! " 



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